


One Night in Cowley

by LadyAJ_13



Series: One Time in Oxfordshire [2]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Although technically set before the last three(?) scenes of the finale, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Morse didn't follow her when she left the office in tears. He didn't follow her when they said their not-goodbyes, in the hall of the station. He just wants to make sure she's okay.





	One Night in Cowley

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly darker than the usual tone of this series, and no cats... I was shocked too.

She'd thought, as much as she'd been able to think anything at all, that Morse might follow her. Given what they'd been through, and her off crying. But he hadn't, and she'd sat in the ladies toilet for long enough to pull herself together (pull a mask over it, more like) before walking home.

She'd wondered again, whether he might follow the second time, after their not-goodbye. But what was there more to say?

She shakes her head, and scrapes her hair into a quick ponytail. She needs to pack. Its blind packing, really, because any time she stops or lets her mind wander, her eyes swim and the world goes blurry.

Instead, she focuses on what to take, and what to leave to the other girls. She doesn't have lots of belongings, but there's no point taking some of the bits and pieces she's picked up over the last couple of years. She sorts through her stack of books, keeping her two favourites and a few she hasn't read yet. The rest she'll give to Lorna on the floor below; she gets through at least three a week, and will be grateful for the new material.

“Shirley!” There's a hiss and a light knock on her door. She sighs, settling the books to keep in her suitcase before drifting over to open it. Maria stands outside, dressed in her nightgown. Is it that late already?

“Shirley! There's – wait, are you okay?” She lays a hand on Shirley's arm, soft. It would be so easy to crumble. But she hasn't told anyone here what happened, unable to bring herself to put it into words. She sniffs and wills her eyes to clear.

“Fine, fine.”

“Okay.” Maria doesn't look convinced, but lets it go. “There's a man here to see you,” she adds, with slightly less enthusiasm than before.

A pit opens in her stomach. For a second, just a split second after Maria said 'man', she'd pictured George. Here to take her to the pub, or the bingo. But no; Maria knew George, and tended to call him a boy anyway.

“He wants to-” Maria cuts herself off with a gasp, because the man has obviously got tired of waiting and is halfway up the stairs. It's Morse. She ducks behind Shirley, no doubt embarrassed by the nightdress. “We're not supposed to have men in the house, you know that.”

“It's Morse,” Shirley murmurs, like that's an explanation for anything.

“Can I come in?” he asks, and she waves him through the door, pivoting with Maria behind her like some weird mirror dance, until she escapes down the corridor. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. There is only one chair, by the desk, and she realises its disappeared beneath clothes; skirts, dresses, even a couple of under things. The only other option is the bed, which is crumpled and strewn with belongings. “Packing up?” he adds.

“Yes. I'm leaving some books, if you want any?” He flicks through the stack, quirking a smile at some of the titles. She wonders whether he's reacting to old favourites, or just amused by her eclecticism. He pulls out a slim volume of poetry and waves it at her.

“May I?” She nods, and he tucks it into a coat pocket. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. Outside the station.”

She turns away, and folds the clothes on the chair. Too aware of him hovering behind her, she tucks them into her suitcase. They're followed by a wash bag, and in the silence she collects together the jewellery strewn on the bedclothes. Her fingers stutter over a cheap necklace, gold plate with a toucan emblem as pendant. It's not her style at all. She smooths her thumb over the cool metal of the bird.

“George got me this.”

She's not crying. There is no hitch in her breath and no waver in her voice. The tears still fall though, like an afterthought, an inevitable overflow she notes with almost detached disregard.

“It's pretty.”

She laughs, and that does catch – until it becomes sobs; great, ugly, wrecking things that shock her. “It's gaudy,” she chokes out, trying to rein herself in.

“Not very you.” He settles a hand on her shoulder, and she turns, giving in, and buries her head in his shoulder. His arms encircle her and lock tight. She feels held together, and though she stifles the sobs to sniffles, he doesn't let go.

“I didn't even tell him I was going.” Its the thought that has ricocheted round her brain since she heard the news. She's told everyone she's leaving, but she never got to tell him. He died thinking they were in love, because she knows that – she could see it in his eyes at the cottage even as she tried to gently lead him away from it. He died not knowing that she was days away from saying goodbye anyway. “Nothing was definite, and it was straight into the case with you, and I didn't want to tell him right before I went and lived with another man, he'd have got the wrong idea.” She hiccups a little, but Morse just hums and sweeps a hand up her back. “He thought I loved him,” she squeezes out, a fresh set of tears wavering on the edge before soaking in to Morse's jumper. She's glad he's wearing it. A damp patch would be so noticeable on shirt cotton.

“First love,” he says softly.

“What?”

“He did love you, his first love. Fall hard, fast. It doesn't mean its the one you should be with. He'd have realised that,” his voice thickens, “given time.” It sounds like he's speaking from experience. “Mine was... Susan. It... hurt,” from his hesitance, she surmises it more than hurt, “when she left me. But now.”

“Now?”

She can feel him sigh, breath tickling the hairs at the back of her neck, escaping from her ponytail. “I know I'm not the happiest of people, but I think I would have been worse with her.” She laughs wetly, and he breaks the hold, gently, stroking down her arms before letting his fall to his sides. He shrugs, with a little half smile, then offers his handkerchief.

She takes it, and wipes her eyes instead of dabs. Too late for decorum now. “Will you stay?” she asks, recklessly. It's against the rules – of the house and her own personal ones – but she doesn't want him to leave. She doesn't want him heading home, or sleeping in the bathtub. But she doesn't want him like _that_ either. Just... someone to hold her, for one night, now the wolves are circling.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Just, be here. Nothing – nothing more.”

He studies her, eyes sweeping from her bare feet to her tear-stained face. She wonders what he sees. But then he nods, turning and flicking on the portable radio on the desk. She has no record player, so he finds a station playing classical music and sets the volume low. She nestles the toucan necklace she'll never wear in a jumper, and zips her suitcase closed.

She can't risk him going outside – Maria is a gossip but she's also pretty liberal and won't tell anyone Shirley has a man round, but if Morse were to bump into Sue, or Lindsey, they'd bring the house down. So instead he blushes pink when she tells him to turn away, and fidgets while she changes into her bedclothes. He only turns back when she promises she's under the covers.

He kicks off his shoes and drapes his coat over the chair before getting the light. Blinded by the sudden darkness, disorientated by the soft melody still drifting from the radio, she feels rather than sees him settle on the other side of the bed. He's carefully, deliberately, above the covers, but its what she'd hoped for – she'd half expected him to take the chair. Suddenly, she's tired, the emotion and stress of the day, the worry and anticipation of what tomorrow brings – its all catching up to her. She turns away and yawns into her hand.

“Hold me?” she asks, exhaustion making her bold.

An arm settles around her waist, cushioned and separated by the drape of blankets, but a comforting warmth nonetheless. Her eyelids droop, awareness suspended on the wire between wake and sleep, and what might be a soft kiss, pressed to her hair.


End file.
